Dear Me Mister Holmes
by TheHeartOfTheDetective
Summary: A serial killer is on the loose, and all Sherlock Holmes is left with are notes and puzzles from the woman responsible for all of the deaths.
1. Chapter 1 –End of Brotherly Compassion

Sherlock looked down at the open eyes of his brother. Mycroft's cold hand was clutching his umbrella, and Sherlock almost smiled at the thought of how fond he was of it, but this was no time for smiling. He couldn't bring himself to smile.

Sometimes, he had dreamed of this moment, the moment when his brother would finally stop watching him. He thought he would be relieved the moment Mycroft's surveillance on him stopped. Now that he stared down at his brother's corpse, he regretted ever fantasizing of such a moment.

Sherlock kneeled down, and laid his fingers over his brothers eyes, closing them. Death was like sleep, people have told him. It's just like sleeping. Sherlock didn't believe them, but he closed Mycroft's eyes anyway. At least he could pretend his brother was asleep.

He looked around the room. Nothing was missing or moved. It was the way it had been just twenty minutes ago, when he and his brother had last talked. Sherlock stood up and walked around the room. He checked everything, and looked over everything multiple times. Something had to be different, anything. Someone had been in here; they had to have left something.

His gaze turned to a chest of drawers to the left of the front door. One of the drawers was open just a tiny bit. He walked over to it, and slid the drawer open. It was empty, except an envelope with a thin rope tied around it. Sherlock slid the rope off and opened the envelope, taking a letter out of it. Before reading it, he looked at the handwriting.

_Female_

_ Cursive_

_ Neat_

_ Writes often_

He couldn't gather much from the writing, so he read it.

_Dear me Mister Holmes, it seems I've caused quite a lot of trouble. Well, you've said you wanted him off your back. You're welcome._

_ I suppose Mycroft's death isn't as you thought it would be. Sorry, my dear, but that's what people do, as Jim Moriarty once said. I miss him; he would have done a better job at this. I'm just following his orders._

_ You've got the rest of your life. Come and find me, Mister Holmes.  
_

Although Sherlock knew this was no time to worry about how interesting the case would be, he groaned at the terrible writing. He thought that if his brother were to be murdered, it should at least be an interesting case.

He set the letter down, and took his phone out of his coat. He dialed a number and held the phone to his ear. After three rings, he received an answer.

"Sherlock," Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade asked on the other line. "what's wrong"

"Lestrade," Sherlock said. "I need you to send your best and least irritating officers to 221b. Call John and tell him to come as well."

"Why? What's happened?"

"My brother had been murdered."


	2. Chapter 2 – Obviously

"Sherlock," John said ten minutes after he arrived at Baker Street. "You don't have to take this case, you know. If it's too much–"

"I'm taking the case." Sherlock said.

"Sherlock, if it's too much for you I'm sure–" Mary, who had come along with John, started.

"What?" Sherlock asked. "You think I would let _them_ investigate?"

"Sherlock," John said, "it's Scotland Yard, I'm sure they could handle it."

"John, I'm sure that after years of solving crimes you know that they cannot handle a case like this." Sherlock said, his voice cold.

John opened his mouth to attempt to defend Lestrade and everyone else at the scene, but Lestrade walked up before he could get any words out.

"Sherlock," He said. "We believe we can handle the case, but if you have any information you know already…" He trailed off, apparently remembering who the victim was. He suddenly gave Sherlock a sympathy look, and spoke again. "I'm sorry, Sherlock."

"I'll take the case." Sherlock said, his straight-faced expression not changing and his voice remaining cold.

"Are you sure? I'm sure we could–"

"I will take the case, Lestrade."

"Alright," Lestrade sighed. "Come to my office tomorrow, tell me everything you know. Don't hold back anything. We'll catch this bastard, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked to the front door of his flat. A coroner was coming through the door with a gurney.

"Give me five minutes," Sherlock told Lestrade. "I want to do some more investigating before he's taken."

Lestrade nodded and walked over to the coroner, speaking with him. Sherlock turned and headed towards the bedroom when John spoke. "Do you want me to…?"

"No," Sherlock said. "I'd rather do this myself."

"Okay." John said. Mary locked her arm with his. She was big now, only two weeks until her due date.

* * *

John and Mary insisted that they spent the night at 221b. In the morning, Mary went out to café with Janine and John accompanied Sherlock to Scotland Yard. When they got to Lestrade's office, he was waiting for them with a pen and a large notepad in front of him. He was actually going to take notes.

John and Sherlock sat in two desks that were sat in front of Lestrade's desk. Lestrade picked up his pen and hovered the tip of it over the top line of the note pad.

"Anytime you're ready, Sherlock." Lestrade said.

Within seconds, Sherlock was speaking at top speed. "The apartment lock was picked, as well as the door to my flat. I was only gone for twenty minutes, so they were fast, really fast. Gunshot to the heart from behind, gun must have had a silencer. Mycroft was facing away from the shooter, but was flipped over onto his back shortly after because 'I.O.U' was carved into his chest above the bullet wound. There were no signs of struggle, so the bullet killed Mycroft within seconds. Of course it would have. There was a letter in a drawer," Sherlock took a breath and began speaking at top speed again. "Whoever it was, was a female. She is either a close friend or family member of Jim Moriarty, judging by how she wrote about him." He took the note out of his pocket and handed it to Lestrade who stopped taking notes and opened the letter. "Neat handwriting, she probably writes a lot, she's had a lot of practice."

"Wait," Lestrade interrupted. "Jim Moriarty? This has to do with the video clip that was on everyone's telly?"

"Yes," Sherlock said. "Obviously."

"So he's not alive?" John asked.

"Obviously not." Sherlock answered, rolling his eyes.

"Obviously?" John questioned.

"Yes, obviously." Sherlock said. "I sat there and watched him blow his brains out. It's impossible to survive that."

"You jumped off a building and survived." John argued. "I saw it."

"Yes, but you didn't see _all_ of my fall. You didn't see me before it or towards the end of it."

"Are you really not going to tell me how you did that?"

"No, that takes all the fun out of it. Besides, it is not of importance at this time."

"Sorry to interrupt," DI Lestrade said. "But we are here for a reason. Sherlock, why don't you tell us why you believe Moriarty is dead?"

"For one thing, I saw him shoot himself. There was a trail of blood and even a bit of the back of his head floated down it. Bit graphic, I know, but since you want details." Sherlock explained.

"Anything else?" Lestrade questioned.

"The suit he was wearing," Sherlock said. "He had tea with me while wearing it before the fall. He was smart, he had a plan; he knew what he wanted to happen after his suicide if I were to stay alive and fool his men. Now, I thought I had dismantled his network, but there must still be someone out there. I don't know how long it will take to find them, but I _will _find them Detective Inspector."

* * *

"Sherlock, John." Mary said when they had arrived at 221b.

"Hello, Mary." John kissed her on the cheek and continued to walk into the flat, sitting down in his chair.

"Sherlock," Mary said as Sherlock stopped in front of her. "How are you doing?"

Sherlock didn't say anything; he just walked past her and sat in his chair. "How's Janine?" He asked, wanting to get the subject off of his brother.

"Well," Mary said. "Still pissed off at you."

"Of course." Sherlock gave Mary a little smirk. "And she still doesn't know that you used her as well?"

"I didn't just use her to get to Magnusson, Sherlock," Mary smiled. "She's a nice girl, a great friend." Sherlock gave her a look and she rolled her eyes. "At least I didn't date her and propose to her to break into her boss's office."

'Shag-a-lot Holmes'" John let out a laugh at Janine's revenge on Sherlock when she made up stories about him and published them in the papers. Mary laughed as well and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"'Seven Times A Night In Baker Street'" Mary said another article title.

"'He made me wear the hat'"

Sherlock picked up a rolled up newspaper, which was on the floor next to his chair and threw it at John.

* * *

John and Mary went back to their flat that night. Sherlock decided to call his parents, who had already been informed about Mycroft's death. His mother and father cried, and Sherlock let a tear slide as well. He informed his parents that he was on the case and that he would find the bloody bastard who had done this. His mother told him to be careful, and his father told him to phone them more often. They would be coming to spend next week in London for Mycroft's funeral.

After Sherlock had hung up the phone, he lay on the sofa. His fingers were steepled in front of his mouth as he thought. He traveled through his mind palace, running up and down stairs, through hallways. Eventually, after he had made sure everything was all right in his mind palace, he grew bored and created a mental map of the crime scene. He checked for any clues he may have missed, but found none and fell asleep on the sofa within minutes.


	3. Chapter 3 – Rather Irritating

When his eyes open, Mrs. Hudson had walked into the flat, carrying a tray of tea and biscuits. She set the tray on the table next to John's chair as Sherlock sat up. Mrs. Hudson poured milk into the tea, and then looked over her shoulder at Sherlock.

"Good morning Sherlock!" She said.

"Yes," Sherlock said. "Morning. What are you doing?"

"I'm bringing you your morning tea," She poured the tea into a teacup as Sherlock stood up and walked over to his chair. He sat down as Mrs. Hudson brought him the teacup. "I always do."

"Yes, of course." He took the teacup and sipped his tea.

"You aren't usually awake."

"Nope." He pronounced the 'p' loudly.

"So," Mrs. Hudson said, sitting down in John's chair. "How are you doing, Sherlock?"

"Fine," He said. "Absolutely fine."

She gave him a look of sympathy and began to speak again. "Are you sure?"

"Quite." He replied, his voice cold.

"Because I'm always downstairs if you need anything."

"Yes."

"You don't have to go through this alone, Sherlock."

"Caring is not an advantage." Sherlock said.

"Sorry?" Mrs. Hudson looked at him, confused.

Sherlock took another sip from his tea and looked over at the fireplace. "Something my brother told me, years ago. 'All lives end, all hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage'. Quite right too."

"Oh, Sherlock."

"Mycroft and I were never close," Sherlock kept his eyes away from Mrs. Hudson. "I've learned to keep my feelings away from the public, so any feelings I possibly have for my late brother are locked up deep in my mind palace. Although some have escaped their containment, I am completely fine. It was going to happen eventually. It's not like it mattered how soon."

Sherlock stood up and set his now empty teacup back on the tray, and walked into the kitchen where his phone was being charged. He picked it up and texted Molly Hooper, the pathologist he often worked with.

** Has an autopsy been done yet?**

** –SH**

Mrs. Hudson started rambling about her late brother, and Sherlock put her on mute. Within a couple of minutes, Molly replied to his text.

**Yes. Would you like to come in?**

** –Mollyxx**

He replied.

**Yes. I'll be there at my convenience.**

** –SH**

** Okay.**

** –Mollyxx**

Sherlock set his phone back down on the counter and walked to the front door. He opened it and looked at Mrs. Hudson, who was still rambling.

"Leave." He interrupted her.

"What?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

"I need to go to the morgue."

Mrs. Hudson stood up from John's chair and hurried to the door. "I really need to speak to your mother about your manners, young man."

"You can if you'd like," He told her. "She cares very little and will therefore do nothing about my _manners_."

Sherlock closed the door after her and went to take a shower. After getting dressed and grabbing his phone, he walked out the door of the flat, hailing a cab as soon as he got outside.

* * *

Molly was waiting for him when he arrived at Saint Bartholomew's Hospital. She gave him a sympathetic smile. "Are you ready?"

"Of course." Sherlock said, and she followed her down to the morgue.

When they stepped into the morgue, Mycroft's body already lay on a slab. Sherlock walked over to the slab and took out his magnifying glass, checking for anything he may have missed at the crime scene. Nothing.

"We found nothing strange or abnormal," Molly said. "Besides the bullet wound, of course, a-and the I.O.U carved to his chest. What do you think it means?"

"It means," Sherlock said, straightening up. "that someone is taking orders from an old friend."

"Friend?" Molly asked.

"Well, when I say friend…"

"Who?"

"You're ex-boyfriend, it would seem." Sherlock opened his brother's eyes, checking for any puncture marks or anything that could have easily been hidden. Nothing. "Jim Moriarty."

Molly stopped, and her sympathy turned into fright. "S-so he's…he's a-alive?"

"No, of course not. No, he made these orders before his suicide. He's told someone to follow his plan if I happened to survive."

"Why do you think it's because of you?"

Sherlock straightened up again. He closed his eyes for a moment and looked up at the ceiling.

"Look at the corpse, Molly." He said.

Molly looked as if she wanted to smack herself in the face. "I'm so…I'm so sorry Sherlock."

"Don't be. It's not your fault."

"So I can't be sorry?" She stepped closer to him.

"You shouldn't be sorry for something you didn't do."

"Can't I?"

"No."

"Sherlock," She paused for a moment, and then continued to speak. "Do you need to talk to someone?"

"Not you too, Molly." He sighed. "Mrs. Hudson already rambled this morning.

"It's just, I lost my brother just a few years ago."

"I don't need to speak to anyone, Molly. I don't need to express my _brotherly compassion _to anyone."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

"Well, if you ever do, I'm here. Okay?"

Sherlock said nothing. Instead, he turned and walked out of the mortuary. He wished people would stop trying to get him to talk. It was rather irritating. He needed to think. After all, Moriarty wouldn't make these orders just to kill Sherlock's brother. Why would he? This was just to mess with Sherlock.

There's going to be more victims.


	4. Chapter 4 – Another one

The next morning, John and Mary came round. Mary had brought red velvet cake, something she thought she could at least force Sherlock to eat.

Upon their arrival, Sherlock was bored out of his mind. John asked if he wanted to play Cluedo, a game he despised, but would play if his best friend wanted to. Sherlock agreed, and he, John, and Mary sat round the dining table playing Cluedo. Mary won, and that aggravated and amazed Sherlock.

They were setting up the board again when Mrs Hudson came through the door with her signature "Ooh-hoo".

"What do you want, Mrs Hudson?" Sherlock asked.

"You didn't answer your doorbell." She said.

"I shot it." Sherlock admitted.

John sighed. "Again?"

Sherlock shrugged.

They heard footsteps on the stairs and within seconds, Greg Lestrade had walked into the flat. "Sherlock."

"Yes, Geoffrey?"

"Greg." Mary corrected.

"That one wasn't even close, Sherlock." John said.

"Oh, what do names matter?" Sherlock asked, rolling his eyes. "What do you want Lestrade? I assume it is of importance. Otherwise, if you've brought your sympathy then you should go ahead and leave. Your sympathy, nor anyone else's, is welcome."

"There's been another one." Lestrade said.

"Is it the same?" Sherlock asked.

"No," Lestrade answered. "No. There are signs of struggle, although very little. We also can't find a letter, although if there is one, you can probably find it."

"Is it someone we know?" John asked.

"No," Lestrade said. "Well, no one that I know anyways."

"Go ahead, we'll follow behind shortly." Sherlock said.

Lestrade turned and headed out the door.

Sherlock stood up, and went to grab his coat, which was lain across the back of the sofa. "Come on John."

"Coming." John said. Sherlock was already out the door.

Mary stood up.

"You aren't coming, Mary." John said.

"Why not?" She asked.

"Because you're pregnant," John said. "Plus, investigators are only used to Sherlock and I showing up. They wouldn't let you in anyway."

"Well, what am I supposed to do here?"

"Read a book or something. We'll be back soon." John gave Mary a short kiss on the lips and then headed out the door.


	5. Chapter 5 – An Old Friend

When they arrived at the crime scene, Sergeant Sally Donovan stood at the police tape, which divided the road, blocking a growing crowd of people from the crime scene. Sherlock and John pushed through the crowd and stood in front of her.

"What do you want, Freak?" She asked, crossing her arms.

"Oh, this _again_?" Sherlock said. "Are we really not past the name calling Donovan?"

"What are you doing here?" She asked.

"I was invited," Sherlock mimicked her and crossed his arms. "Just like I always am."

"Why?"

"I think Lestrade wants me to take a look, don't you?"

John stepped up next to Sherlock. "Just let us through, please."

Donovan let out an exasperated sigh as she lifted the tape. "Go on."

Sherlock gave her a fake smile and ducked under the tape. John followed behind and they approached the flat.

Lestrade was waiting at the door. "Body's through there." He pointed through the doorway to what Sherlock believed was the sitting room.

They walked into the room, and the body lay on the sofa. Sherlock walked over to it, John following beside. Lestrade stood at the doorway, watching them approach the body.

John gasped. "Oh my god."

Lestrade frowned. "What is it?"

"Oh god." Sherlock said.

Lestrade took a step forward. "What's wrong?"

"That's…" John trailed off.

"What's the matter?" Lestrade repeated.

"Mike…" John continued.

Lestrade frowned again. "Who?"

"Mike. Mike Stamford," John said. "We studied together at Bart's."

Sherlock got on his knees and took out his magnifying glass, leaning over the body of Mike Stamford. "How fresh?"

"About two hours," Lestrade said. "His wife found him here."

Sherlock examined the wound to Mike's chest. "The bullet went completely through him, but didn't kill him instantly. There's quite a lot of blood, and being shot here would have bled him out quickly. He died of blood loss." Sherlock looked through his magnifying glass at Mike's fingernails. He moved on to his arms and his neck. "His nails are chipped off and he has bruises forming on his arms and neck…He put up a fight for quite awhile. There are scratches on his body that can only be from fingernails; they are thin and not very long. I would guess that a woman with long nails did it; possibly acrylic nails." He moved on to examining Mike's clothing. "Short, dark hairs are present on his clothing. I thought this was a woman, but balance of probability says man. Maybe there were two people here. Was there a note?"

"No." Lestrade said, returning to his place in the doorway. He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. "We checked and there was no note anywhere in the flat."

"Did you check everywhere?" John asked.

"Everywhere we could think to look."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh, you lot are so thick. How did you even get your jobs?"

He lifted Mike's shirt up, revealing his large belly. There were words carved into him.

John read it aloud.

"_Dear me Mister Holmes, I've done it again._

_ Jim said you always knew where to look. _

_ I've left you a few more hints this time; Mr Stamford sure did put up quite a fight. You'll find me eventually; I know you will. Until then, let's have some fun with this. Upstairs, under the mattress in the bedroom, I have left you a crossword puzzle. The letters at every intersection can be lined up into a certain order to reveal the name of my next victim._

_ You can get all the help you want, although I have made it quite easy for you and your little pet, Watson. If you _really_ have to, you may Google although I hope you don't get that stumped. Time to save a life, do what you can._

_ Solve it in twelve hours, and you can save my next victim._

_ Good luck, Mister Holmes. x_"

As soon as John stopped reading, he, Sherlock, and Lestrade ran up the stairs into Mike and his wife's bedroom. They lifted the mattress, and underneath was a crossword puzzle. Sherlock picked it up and looked at it. There were twelve words.

_Down:_

_ 1: To shake something until it begins to work._

_ 3: __Vertebrato animale con branchie, pinne, senza, arti c si trova completamente in acqua._

_ 4: A long, eventful journey._

_ 6: Having or showing great knowledge._

_ 7: The 19th letter of the Hebrew alphabet._

_ 8t: A round eyelike opening or design._

_ 9: Relating to the mental disorder of hallucinations, acting in conflicting ways, having multiple personalities, and delusions._

_ 11. Something I have recently committed._

_ Across:_

_ 2. Excessive, irritating talking._

_ 5. Chatter._

_ 10. There are 118 that are known._

_ 12. Strong-smelling hairy plant in the mint family._

Sherlock looked over the hints. "Most of these look like we would know them."

John looked at the list. "We can do this in less then 12 hours?"

Sherlock folded the list and put it in his coat pocket. "Definitely."


End file.
